“I saw it performed at the Tonkunstlerverein.”
“And?”
Liebermann revolved his hand in the air. “It went on rather. Creeping chromaticism that slid around to no great purpose. The string writing was very accomplished-technically perfect, in fact. But it was all rather soulless and unoriginal-tepid Wagner.”
“Well, he's writing an opera now-Carnuntum.”
“Based on List's book?”
“Indeed.”
“I assume that you have identified Aschenbrandt as a suspect on account of his being a musician. Thus we might reasonably assume that he is conversant with the operas of Mozart.”
Rheinhardt smiled. “Herr Aschenbrandt knows the operas of Mozart very well, particularly The Magic Flute, of which he has a very definite opinion. So much so that he was minded to write a letter to the Zeitung lambasting Director Mahler for championing such an inane, nonsensical work.”
“He doesn't like Mozart?” exclaimed Liebermann-as if to hold such an opinion merited public execution.
“He doesn't merely dislike Mozart,” said Rheinhardt. “He hates him!”
54
“MY NAME IS DOCTOR MAX Liebermann. I have been issued with a special commission by the security office to conduct an interview with Herr Aschenbrandt.”
The sound of a piano could be heard: turgid rumblings in the lower octaves followed by descending chromatic thirds.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the maid.
“No.”
“Herr Aschenbrandt does not like to be disturbed.”
“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “But this is a police matter.”
The maid knocked timidly on a single-paneled door at the end of the hallway-but the grumbling piano continued. After a second, louder knock, the music stopped and a muffled “Enter” could be heard. The maid turned the handle and went in. As the door opened, the pianist shouted, “What is it now, Elga?”
A few moments later the maid reappeared. “I am sorry, Herr Doctor.” She glanced down in embarrassment. “But Herr Aschen-brandt would like to see your documents.”
“Of course,” Liebermann said, removing the papers from his breast pocket and handing them to the maid.
Elga returned with the documents and he was admitted into the composer's study.
Herr Aschenbrandt turned in a perfunctory manner. He did not move from his piano stool, and gestured that Liebermann might take a seat if he wished. Liebermann chose a threadbare armchair.
The room was not large and felt distinctly cluttered, occupied for the most part by an immense Bluthner concert grand. Score sheets, showing abandoned drafts of various musical ideas, were strewn across the floor. On a long shelf, sagging under the weight of many literary and philosophical works, was a plaster bust of Richard Wagner. The decor was rather dowdy, and the curtains, because they were half-drawn, reduced the natural light, creating an impression of must and gloom. A cello case stood against the far wall, its long neck terminating next to a pen-and-ink sketch of a Gothic castle executed in the manner of Caspar David Friedrich.
“Forgive me for being impertinent, Herr Doctor,” said Aschen-brandt. “But I am currently writing a rather demanding development section. Therefore, I humbly request that this interrogation be brought to a satisfactory conclusion as soon as possible.”
Liebermann smiled. “It is hardly an interrogation, Herr Aschen-brandt. I merely wish to ask you a few questions on behalf of the security office. If you can help, I will be most grateful.”
“Then let us proceed, Herr Doctor.”
For a young man he seemed surprisingly self-assured.
“What are you composing?” asked Liebermann. “It sounded like a dramatic piece from the hallway.”
“An opera, yes.”
“Your first?”
“Apart from some juvenile music dramas-yes.”
Liebermann spotted List's novel next to the music stand.
“It is based on Carnuntum?”
“Indeed.”
“I have often wondered what it is that makes a composer choose a particular text. Because music is such an elevated art form, I would suppose that-in some small part, at least-you must resent burdening your inventions with words?”
Aschenbrandt's pale blue eyes seemed to emit a strange phosphorescent glow.
“Naturally,” he replied. “I am indeed of the opinion that music is the highest art form. Yet if a text expresses some noble sentiment, the task of marrying a melody to an appropriate verse can be deeply satisfying. As Wagner so clearly demonstrated”-he glanced briefly at the bust on the shelf-”the whole can be greater than the sum of its parts.”
“And has List provided you with such a text?”
“I believe so.”
Liebermann sat back in his chair and rested his loosely clenched fist against his cheek. His index finger uncurled so that its extremity touched his temple.
“I must confess, I am not familiar with List's writings.”
“Carnuntum is a masterpiece,” said Aschenbrandt. “An inspiration: the tale of a beleaguered, courageous people overcoming a mighty foe. It is a work of great clarity-and insight-although…” He craned forward, and seemed to be inspecting his visitor more closely. “Not to everyone's taste. There are some, inevitably, who cannot appreciate its depth.”
Aschenbrandt's nostrils flared: a subtle but nevertheless discernible expansion and contraction. It left Liebermann with the disconcerting impression that he had just been “sniffed out.” His finger gently tapped against his temple.
“I recently attended a performance of your quintet at the Tonkunstlerverein.”
“Did you?” The composer recoiled a little.
“Yes-The Invincible. Why did you call it that?”
Aschenbrandt's expression hovered somewhere between surprise and contempt.
“Because of the prophecy, Herr Doctor.”
“The prophecy?”
“As you are not conversant with Carnuntum, I daresay”Aschenbrandt's upper lip curled-”that you cannot be expected to know of List's more scholarly works.”
“The Invincible is the title of a book?”
“The Invincible: Basics of a German Weltanschauung. It was published a few years ago.”
“And the prophecy, Herr Aschenbrandt?”
“Der Unbesiegbare-The Invincible-the strong one from above.”
Liebermann raised his eyebrows, tacitly requesting further elaboration.
Aschenbrandt sighed. “Herr Doctor, I wish to continue with my work. What is the purpose of your visit?”
Liebermann chose to ignore the composer's question and persisted with his own. “The prophecy, Herr Aschenbrandt? I didn't realize your quintet was programmatic.” Liebermann leaned forward, affecting surprise and great interest. Aschenbrandt-perhaps weakened by flattery-found it difficult to resist responding.
“It is not programmatic in the sense of following a narrative. It merely seeks to embody the spirit of the prophecy.”
“Which is?”
“That the German people will be tested, and finally redeemed, by a great leader-the Invincible. The prophecy
